


Blood upon the ground

by Beleriandings



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, EDIT: THIS WAS WRITTEN BEFORE EP26 AND NOW IT MAKES ME SAD x1000, Gen, Molly has existential angst sometimes, Near Death Experiences, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: Molly thought, in hindsight, that he really should know better by now than to expect quiet days. And ordinarily, he was always eager for a bit of trouble.This, however, was distinctly not the kind of trouble he had envisioned.





	Blood upon the ground

This was not part of the plan. 

They weren’t even doing anything dangerous, Mollymauk thought with some bitterness; ironically, they had been on their way to buy more healing potions and magical supplies. Nothing like what they usually got into. No monsters involved. Just a respite: a quiet evening running errands in Zadash. They had planned to go and get resoundingly and cheerfully drunk together later, as the autumn night drew in.

 _Ha_. Molly thought, in hindsight, that he really should know better by now than to expect quiet days, let alone with this group in tow. Where the Mighty Nein went, trouble seemed to follow close in their footsteps. And ordinarily of course, Molly was always more than eager for a bit of trouble. 

This, however, was distinctly _not_ the kind of trouble he had envisioned. 

The sword arced towards Molly’s head, striking sparks against the wall as he ducked just in time. With a curse in Infernal, he shot a look over to where Caleb was slumped unconscious against the wall, a thin trickle of blood making its way down his cheek from his hairline. 

Nott was wide-eyed beside him, her teeth bared and her crossbow loaded, but she was clearly shaken; her attention kept going back to Caleb as she tugged at his arm. Her eyes darted behind her to the alley where Beau had run to fetch Yasha and Jester from their shopping trip. That had been the plan anyway; get the others so they would have someone who could heal Caleb while Molly and Fjord held off these people who had cornered them. 

Whoever _they_ were. Not that Molly needed to guess much. It must be known by now that the Mighty Nein - hardly an inconspicuous group even before they had shown off their fighting in the Victory Pit - were working for the Gentleman. A man like that must surely have more enemies even than he had gold pieces, despite the grip he maintained on this city’s underworld. It wasn’t even clear to him whether they were another criminal faction, or working for the empire in some way. But up until a little while ago, Molly had supposed that they would be easy to dispatch, just one or two thugs with clubs cornering them in an alleyway as the dusk fell heavy over the city, but before the lamps were lit. 

It was just bad luck that one of them had gotten the drop on Caleb, knocked him out with one strike to the crown of the head. He was unconscious, but he would survive. The others could easily hold them off, but they needed Jester and Yasha, with their healing. And so Beau had taken off running over the rooftops to find them where they had gone ahead together to the Pentamarket, leaving Fjord and Nott and himself to fight them off. 

It had been just after that that ten more of them had turned up, dropping down from the rooftops dressed in dark clothing, significantly better armed and better trained than the previous ones, who, Molly now realised, had probably just been a lure. 

_Stupid_. They had been stupid to fall for that one, hadn’t they? He gritted his teeth as he parried another savage dagger thrust, the blade grinding up to the guard of his left scimitar and locking there for a moment, before he twisted around and flung the attacker backwards. They wore a dark cloth over most of their face, but in the dim, phantasmal glow from his scimitar he caught the glints of eyes before he pushed them away with a final shove. 

It was hard to see much, but it was not someone he recognised, as far as he could tell. _Assassins, then?_ It was certainly possible. They could find out more later, perhaps; Fjord had killed one already, and the dagger had skittered away to the cobblestones. They could find it, identify it.

That was, assuming they got out of this alive. Molly felt a flicker of worry as he saw a few more come; they were badly outnumbered now. Nott shot one with her crossbow, but the bolt glanced off what sounded like some sort of leather armour, under their black clothes. With a snarl, she hurled her dagger, glinting in the light of Molly’s swords. That did hit one of them, and there was a muffled cry, the dim shadow of a body falling to the ground. Nott grinned in triumph, and Molly was just about to shout a congratulation back at her when her smile turned into a cry of alarm; a throwing star - like Beau’s but larger, with hooked blades - had darted down from the roof, hitting the wooden wall of the house right above Caleb’s head and sticking there, with a shuddering motion. 

Fjord, grimacing in worry, swooped down and wrenched it free, sending it hurtling back up to the roof; there was a cry that said it had found its mark, but Molly could still see more of them coming around the corner. Exchanging a grim, wordless look with Fjord - _where were the others, come on, let them come soon_ \- Molly vaulted over a stack of crates and charged at them, blocking one who was coming for Nott. She seemed startled out of what she was doing, which was patting Caleb’s cheek, dabbing at the blood on his head with a dirty rag and whispering soothing words into his ear as he lay there unconscious still. 

At the very least Caleb didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, thought Molly. _Just unconscious_. As long as the three of them kept him safe until the others returned. 

It all hinged on that, didn’t it? Molly dodged to one side, feinting the other way then turning back to snatch at the cloth mask his attacker was wearing; it half came free. Not enough to see much of a face, but enough to see the eyes, once more.

And that was all he needed. With a quick word, blood was running black in the dimness, from the corners of their eyes. Blinded, they did not see the crates Molly kicked in front of them, sending them sprawling down to the hard cobbles. 

Molly jumped over. _On to the next one. Not much longer_. He glanced to the side, just in time to hear Fjord’s urgent shout from behind him. 

“Molly! On your right!”

He looked, just too late. Or rather, just soon enough to see the assassin coming up behind him, to feel the pain as they grabbed his wrist and wrenched it backwards with a horrible crunch, at an angle that made pain explode up his arm. His fingers went loose, letting the scimitar fall to the alleyway with a clatter. He let out a hiss of pain as Nott ran up and sliced at his attacker’s ankles with her shortsword, and it was enough to give him time to twist away, dodging the dagger strike at his head as he disengaged. 

He gave Nott a nod of thanks, but she had already darted back to Caleb’s side. _That was for the best, probably_. Molly gritted his teeth as he tried to flex his hand, making pain run like fire up his wrist to his elbow; he didn’t think, at least, that it was a spell. It has hurt a great deal at first but now it was rapidly going numb, and he was losing movement in that hand. Some sort of damage to the nerves, perhaps. Jester could fix that, when she got here. 

_Whenever that would be_. He pushed the thought aside; he was much more concerned about the lost sword, now cut off from him on the alley floor beyond the crates, with his enemies in between. This was a dead end too, and it would be all too easy to trap them there. 

His blood beat in his ears in a nervous rhythm as he ran backwards, coming back to back with Fjord who cast an arcing and crackling line of purple energy at one of them, but missed. With a string of creative curses - must be a sailor thing, Molly though, mildly impressed - Fjord struck out with his falchion instead. It seemed to burn in the corner of his eyes as it sliced through the air and towards its target. Molly nodded approvingly, letting power flow into his voice as he spoke in Infernal. It was enough to send them reeling a little, off balance enough for him to slice its chest with his off-hand scimitar. 

Fjord shot him an approving nod, but his face was still grim. There were only two of the assassins now, or only two that they could see, Molly realised, and even as he watched, one of Nott’s crossbow bolts his one in the throat, a black-draped body collapsing on the ground. That was good. Only one left. If their friends came before more of them, then they should get out of this. 

Which was still a fairly big _if_. 

At that moment, there came a cry from behind him; a sharp exhalation of air. Molly froze on the way to retrieve his sword, turning back just in time to see Fjord catch a small, object, trailing a little smoke and sparking at one end, that was falling down from the roof towards the corner where he and Nott and Caleb were. Molly’s eyes widened, as Fjord shouted out. “Molly, get down-”

He didn’t have time to finish the sentence before the charge went off, a brilliant flash of light that illuminated the alleyway in burning white, like a lightning strike, for an instant, all around them. Molly saw it illuminate the dark behind his eyes even with his arm over them, as he flung himself to shelter behind the crates, several of which collapsed on top of him, making his vision explode with light all over again as one struck the back of his head, half glancing off his horn but still striking him solid blow to the scalp with its corner, before all went silent.

For a moment, his eyes burned and smarted with the fraction of an instant of brilliant light before he had closed them, fear beating wildly through him as he lay there in the smoke-filled dark. For a moment, it felt almost like a dream; like the ones he had where he was lost in a dark space, disconnected from his body, untethered from the world and yet unable to move as cloying panic clutched at him.

Then, he realised that he was, in fact, conscious. His head hurt, and it was dark, but he could stand up. And so he did, blinking furiously to get the phosphorescent burn of the light away from his field of vision, looking around.

He saw Fjord collapsed on the ground in front of Nott, who was inspecting the damage. He drew in a worried gasp of air. “Is he…”

“He’s alive” said Nott. “It was just a flashbomb, but he just…he’s an idiot and he just _grabbed_ it…” she shook her head, indicating the burned patch on the front of Fjord’s leather armour. Even though the bomb hadn’t contained any shrapnel - _thank the grace of the Moonweaver_ , Molly thought - the blast must have been a lot to contain. Fjord lay unconscious on the ground now, still clutching the empty cylinder that had held the flashing charge, and the sight brought Molly’s fear back once more. 

“Will he…” Nott looked up at Molly with wide, fearful eyes. 

She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Molly grimaced; “so long as the others come soon…he’ll survive. Hopefully.” Blood dripped down the back of his neck, down into his coat collar, and he made a face as he looked around. 

Suddenly he had an idea. He smiled a little, dropping down onto his knees, setting his one remaining scimitar on the stones and taking off the necklace he had bought from around his neck; the charm to keep him alive if he fell in battle. He supposed Fjord had more need of it, right now. “Here” he told Nott, holding it out. “This should be enough for now.”

Nott nodded, reluctantly, darting a glance backwards. He could tell that she was tempted to grab it and put it on Caleb instead, she held out as he tied it around Fjord’s neck. In truth, he could understand the impulse - he would have helped both if he could, would have given all he had to give so that they could all survive - but right now, he thought, Fjord was the more gravely injured. He needed to keep a clear head, needed to watch Nott’s back as she watched his, so that they could keep Fjord and Caleb safe. 

_Speaking of watching_. He turned around, scanning the alley quickly. The light on his scimitar had fizzled out to nothing, for the moment, and he briefly considered using a little more of his blood to light it again. Perhaps he should save that for a last resort; he was weaker and in more pain than he had realised until he stood up just now. “Do you see any more of them?” he asked Nott. 

She shook her head. “No, but I thought there was one m- ”

But Nott did not get a chance to finish her sentence, or at least Molly did not hear it. For in an instant, there was another dark shape bursting out from behind the crates with a cry, wielding a shortsword in a savage forward thrust. 

Molly did not have time to think, or even to activate his sword. His body moved on its own, sidestepping so that he was in front of Nott, and Fjord and Caleb propped unconscious beside each other on the wall at his back. He could hear Nott cry out a warning, but it was too late; the blade glinted in the light of the moon as the clouds above parted in a sudden gust of cold autumn wind, whistling through the alleyway. 

The blade came closer, time seeming to slow down as Molly moved, almost as though in a trance. It felt like a punch to the chest as it struck him in the solar plexus, knocking him backwards and pinning him nearly to the wall as he gasped in shock, seeing the reddening patch on his shirt, the hilt of the shortsword protruding from him. His would-be assassin seemed caught off guard by it too; they must have been expecting him to dodge then, rather than take the blow fully like that. 

_“No! Mollymauk!”_

Nott’s tearing shriek went through his ears, as shock beat a wild dance in his chest. His hands came up to touch the hilt of the blade. He was vaguely aware of his remaining scimitar falling to the alley floor too, skittering away across the stones, its light dimming in the corner of his vision as the spell - whatever it was his blood held within it - left the blade. 

His blood, which was now beginning to soak his shirt in a large, spreading patch, dark in the cold light of the rising moon. He gritted his teeth, pain washing over him in a dizzying wave as he shifted slightly, biting down on his tongue as he struggled to hold on to consciousness. His hands were on the hilt, fingers slippery with blood. And he was used to that; certainly he was, but _this_ … Molly tasted blood in his mouth too, on his lips, its iron tang familiar, binding him to the present somewhat. 

His vision swam as he watched the assassin watch him, time seeming to slow and shift strangely as though he were swimming through a thick liquid. or maybe it was just his mind, grasping at the last threads of awareness as he struggled to stay upright, still impaled through the chest.

He watched his attacker, unable to do anything else for now. They were watching him, cautious, from the depths of the hood. Calculating. Waiting. 

Waiting for him to die. 

Waiting, too, for a way past to his friends. Or not, he realised; suddenly he was aware that only a few fractions of a second had actually past since he had been stabbed. But Nott’s screech of anger and fear - fear for him, Molly realised - brought him back to the present again. 

She was leaping over along the alleyway, vaulting over tumbled and broken crates with her shortsword drawn, eyes glowing bright, teeth bared. She flung herself bodily at the assassin, but they were too quick; before she could touch them, they had grasped her by the back of her cloak, holding her out in the air. She thrashed back and forth, but there was no help for it; she was several feet above the ground, furious and screaming but near helpless. 

Molly watched, still paralysed by pain and shock as the assassin plucked Nott’s sword from her hand, held it out towards her. Molly’s heart speeded up at that, in fear, but it only made the blood from his chest come faster. It felt hot against his skin, but cooling quickly in the night air. 

At that moment, he heard a sound behind him, a gasp. Turning his head brought a lance of pain to him, making him bite his tongue until he tasted blood. But in the corner of his eyes, he saw a sight that made his heart jump to his throat once more. 

Caleb had come to consciousness, eyes wide with horror, pale in the moonlight as he took in the grisly and desperate scene in the alleyway. Molly didn’t blame him, waking up to see that; Fjord, slumped unconscious and soot-blackened on the stones beside him, Molly, impaled with a sword and bleeding into a terrible dark pool on the stones, Nott struggling and fighting furiously, in the unyielding grip of an enemy. Caleb must think he was dreaming some terrible nightmare, Molly realised, and his face confirmed it. There was a moment of wide-eyed horror as Caleb’s fingers scrabbled at the stone wall propping him up, struggling against weakness from his injuries. 

Struggling to throw himself back into the fight, Molly realised; Caleb was not even on his feet again yet, but already his expression had changed, hardened; his lip curled in a snarl that even Molly, for the briefest instant, found himself afraid of. Fire began to glow at his fingers, even as he struggled to pull himself up onto his weakened legs, a fall of blood-matted hair casting darkness across his face again in the stark moonlight. 

This was _bad_ , Molly realised all at once. Caleb would try to fight for them, but he was in no shape for fighting. Worse, the assassin seemed to understand this too, had looked over at Caleb, who had managed to claw himself upwards to one knee now, burning hands leaving blackened smears of soot on the wall behind him. 

“Caleb, don’t - ” this was Nott, but before she could get any further, the hand twisted tighter in her cloak, pulling it taut around her neck so her next words were drowned in a strangled cry. 

Still carrying Nott, the black-shrouded figure stepped to one side of Molly, advancing on Caleb. Molly’s mid flew feverishly through the possibilities, hazed by pain and shock as it was. Even in that state, he knew enough to know that no possible outcome of this would be good. There must be something he could do. He was wounded, perhaps to the death - _and no, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t ever want to die again, but he was here in the present and he had to find a way, had to help them_ \- but there had to be something. He had to work with what he had; his swords were lost, and he didn’t trust his voice, didn’t trust the strength it held in it when he let the words in Infernal free, infused with compelling power. He could barely make a sound now. There was too much blood, on the ground, on his hands, at the back of his throat and at the corners of his mouth. 

_The blood_ … there must be a way, he thought. He had lost his swords, somewhere, and his vision had tunneled too much at the edges to see them. The only sword he could see was the one sticking out of his chest. 

The sword was keeping him from bleeding to death. That much he knew; his blood, his powerful blood, would have all spilled to the cobbles if not for that. 

And then, Molly knew what he had to do. What he had to do to save Nott, to save Caleb and Fjord, to buy them enough time until the others arrived. 

It would take all the scant strength he had remaining; even now, he didn’t know if he had enough. 

_(It would mean his death, but then, he had died before. Maybe it would come easily.)_

_(He didn’t want to go. He liked who he was; he didn’t want to become someone else, but perhaps there was no help for it.)_

_(At least the end of Mollymauk Tealeaf might be a better one than Lucien, whoever he was, who had come before.)  
_

There was no other choice; this he knew with a clarity that broke through the swiftly darkening haze that surrounded him. 

_(There would be light soon. It could be any weapon. After all, the power was in him, not in the steel.)_

And so, Molly summoned all the strength had left, placing both hands on the hilt of the sword, and pulled as hard as he could.

It came free slowly, in a great consuming whorl of pain and darkness, that made him cry out and convulse, but he did not stop. No help for it now. As it came free in a great spouting torrent of blood, he was vaguely aware of himself screaming as he activated the sword, the power of his blood illuminating it with a moonlight sheen of pale brilliance as frost rimed the metal in chaotic, crystalline patterns. He gritted his teeth, stepping to the side with a motion that made the whole world lurch and spin around him. But he had done what he had to, putting himself between the assassin and Caleb, pushing the sword forwards with all the force he could muster. It met its mark, sinking into flesh, the spell slicing through and killing instantly. 

The assassin didn’t even have time to scream. They crumpled to the ground into a broken heap, dropping Nott to the ground, allowing her to scamper away, wide-eyed and crying out. 

Molly was barely aware of that though; he was falling to the ground on his knees, into the dark pool of blood soaking into the gaps in the cobbles. His coat would be torn at the back, he thought, absurdly; the sword must have gone right through him. His vision swam, and suddenly Nott was there, touching his face in that worried way she had; cradling his head - and since when was he on the ground? He couldn’t remember, and _oh, gods, he couldn’t remember_ \- her voice saying words he couldn’t hear. Something about the others, something about Caleb, or Jester who could heal him. Something about a necklace, and Fjord, a tangle of desperate words that Molly had lost too much blood to understand anymore as Nott desperately tried to keep him from falling forwards, into his own blood.

Clouds were scudding across the moon; he could see them reflected in the pool of blood. He couldn’t hear anything but a dull roaring, rising up like the numb oblivion that came in his nightmares. 

_Not long now_.

Would he wake up again? But no, it didn’t matter; even if this body were to return, to be healed, to come back from the dead, that person wouldn’t be him. So really it wasn’t his problem. It was better than the last time he had died too; at least he knew he had died doing something that was right, this time. 

_His friends though_ … they would grieve, they would suffer, and that he did regret. Still, there was no help for it; at least they were safe, for now it seemed. 

As darkness overcame him, Molly though he saw the alleyway grow bright for a few seconds; bright orange, strangely. Fire and smoke, cries of anger and pain. There was a loud sound from behind him, and four bright lights glinted in reflection in the pool of blood. Then, suddenly, more voices that hadn’t been there before, coming from somewhere to the side. A hand on his cheek, and another on the soft inside of his wrist.

But it was too late. The darkness closed in around him, and he knew no more.

* * *

 

He remembered nothing for a long time; only darkness, enclosing him. The void, as Molly had often found, was not a emptiness; not for him, at least. Maybe for others, but for him the absence of things had always been a tight, suffocating one. If there was no space, then there was no space to breath in, no space for him to exist in. 

And no time either, no clocks to measure how long he was trapped in the place, that blank oblivion that nevertheless came with a consuming dread, eroding his mind and the tailends of the memories he tried to cling to with blood-slippery fingers.

It went on and on, for what could easily have been years, centuries even, if time had meant anything in that dark place from which his nightmare were born. Until, at some point, there was light; a breaking open of that darkness. He could see it even through the bloody glow of his closed eyelids; it drifted above, dancing across his field of vision. A hand on the side of his face, gentle and warm, solid and blessedly real. 

After a while, he felt a powerful desire to open his eyes, and look at that light with his own unclouded gaze. There was something familiar about its quality; there was magic in it, he knew, though he was still on the edges of dream. If he just looked at it, it would save him, bring him back from the precipice of that confining dark place.

Summoning all the strength he had, Molly opened his eyes. 

And immediately closed them tightly again, blinded by an iridescent magical light. The familiar glow of a shimmering chromatic diamond, just above his face. Its too-close too-bright image was seared across his retinas, and his eyes burned with and watered - he was aware now that his whole face hurt, his whole body hurt - but at least it was something, rather than nothing. 

At his movement though, voices erupted all around him; he heard them as though from several rooms away, echoing and distorted, but he could understand the tone if not the words. Joy, relief, the sounds of fears put aside. 

It filled him with a rush of deep love and joy, the shapeless, unfiltered kind of emotions that can only come on the very edges of dreams and waking. It gave him the courage he needed to open his eyes again, just a crack this time. 

A face, staring down at him through the haze of his still mostly closed lashes. Little more than a blurred smudge of blue, but he could make out fear there, concern. Speaking to him, slipping into Infernal to try to call him, then back to Common again. Other voices, joining in, arguing in soft, tense voices in the background. 

“He’s waking up!”

“Move back, don’t crowd him…”

“Caleb, we don’t need the light anymore, you’re just hurting his eyes with that!”

“Jester, do you need some more herbs? I can get some if…”

“Shh! He’s waking up, stop talking so loud!”

Molly blinked a few times, as Jester’s face came into focus, her hands covered in drying blood, her eyes bloodshot and fearful, still filled with tears. The ceiling behind her was a familiar one, too; he was in a bed back in their rooms at the Leaky Tap, he realised, though he had no memory of being brought here. But it didn’t matter now; all that mattered was the faces around him, crowding in to get a better look. 

Beside Jester was Caleb, lights dancing about him, with Frumpkin peering over his shoulder. Nott clung to his sleeve with fingers bunched in the cloth in a tight grip, tense and fearful as her glowing yellow eyes watched Molly intently. Fjord was holding a basin of water for Jester, already tinged a dark pink with blood, several sodden and bloody rags hanging over its edge. He had frozen mid-way through bringing her a clean one, eyes immediately going to Molly’s face too as he stirred. Yasha was sitting on the edge of the bed and holding one of his hands tightly in both of hers, he realised as more feeling and awareness returned. Her grip, though tight, was both grounding and soothing, solid and real as she was. As he watched, the door opened and Beau came in. “Did it help at all…” she stopped, taking in the hush in the room and immediately coming over to peer over Yasha’s shoulder. “Oh…it worked? He’s awake?”

“Y-yes” said Jester, eyes already beginning to fill with tears. “Yes, he’s awake…”

“Jester, you’re amazing! That was literally the most powerful healing spell I’ve ever seen…” Beau looked down at Molly, and even he could see how afraid she had been, though she did a good job of faking her usual unconcern. “That was a close thing…” she looked uncomfortable, rubbing the back of her head self-consciously. “If I had been faster…”

“No, it was Nott’s quick thinking, to save him by putting the necklace back on him.” said Fjord. 

Nott blanched. “I’m sorry…I had to make a snap decision, and I thought he was…”

“In more danger than I was, yeah.” Fjord nodded grimly. “You were right, and you don’t need to apologise to me anymore, Nott.”

Sure enough, when Molly raised his other hand - the one that Yasha was not holding - to his chest, he found the pendant he had bought hanging there. But his hand also found something else different. A new scar; a deep depression in the flesh of his chest, right in the middle. He saw Jester‘s face twist in pain as his fingers explored the healed place. Magical healing usually did not leave such scars, at least not for the more minor wounds he had suffered in the past. He must have come closer to death than even he realised, and his friends had been the ones that had had to be there for it, to try to pull him back from that endless pool of blood and darkness. 

His heart ached in his chest; _what had he put them through for his sake?_

“We all did what we could” said Yasha, her face grave. “I just wish I had been there sooner, too…”

“Yasha, it’s not your fault either!” 

_It’s none of your faults_ , Molly wanted to say. _You really did save me_. But all he could do was part his lips, no sound coming out except a breathy soft whisper for the moment.

Jester nodded at Yasha, but her face was still fearful, caressing the side of Molly’s face as she spoke to him. “You lost so much blood, I didn’t know if I could save you anymore…”

But she broke off, as Yasha laid a placating hand on her arm. “You did, though. You did.”

“Yeah!” Jester smiled through her tears, brushing back a curl of hair that had fallen over Molly’s face. “Yeah, I guess I did!”

“Wait…” Caleb raised a hand, his face still grim. “We don’t know, ah, if he will remember…” All the others froze; exchanging glances, as Caleb pushed on, face schooled carefully; Molly knew that look. He had seen people’s eyes tun to steel and stone before, because they were so afraid that if they were anything else they would break. “We have to… to _check_. Like we said.”

Jester was in tears now, but she nodded. “Yes” she said, taking a deep breath and nodding. Fjord laid a hand on her arm, which seemed to give her the strength she needed to turn back to Molly. “Who are you? Can you tell us your name?”

He blinked. For an instant, he had a moment of spiraling panic as it eluded him, the syllables he needed just out of his grasp. And then… then he smiled, lips cracking a little. His voice was still hard to find, still painful, the words cracking in his dry throat. But he knew he had to try; this was too important. 

It took him a few tries, but they all waited patiently until the words came. “M…Mollymauk… Tealeaf” he said, as clearly as he could. _His name_. It felt good to say, and it wasn’t anything he was planning on giving up any time soon. The others all seemed to relax a little at the sound of it, tension leaving the room like an opened sluice. Beau’s shoulders relaxed, and Jester actually burst into laughing tears. Even Caleb’s face softened, a smile breaking across it like sunlight through clouds. Molly cleared his throat, saying it again a little louder. “My name is Mollymauk Tealeaf. And… we are the Mighty Nein.” He laughed a little, at the sheer joy of being able to remember, so clearly, so easily. “And this world is not going to get rid of me as easily as that.”

And, he realised as they all closed in around him to hug him one by one, with people like them around him that was almost certainly true.


End file.
